Broken Places
by shewriteswords
Summary: "Sam shifted, uncertain if he should mention his dream. But why not, he thought. If he'd been supernaturally crippled there was no reason why he couldn't have a supernatural dream." This story is marked complete to indicate that it will no longer be updated. Thanks to many of you and your encouragements, I rewrote this story as "In Stony Places," which can be found on my profile.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't really know where this story came from or where it's going to go, but I do have a few ideas and I plan to complete it! I also plan on eventually writing a sequel to _Just This Once_, featuring all three brothers, but that may have to wait until December when I get some time off. So for now, enjoy some Sam and Dean! And as always, I'd love to hear what you think... especially if you have suggestions as to where I could take this story - I'm open to ideas!  
**

**Summary: **Wherein Sam, and by extension Dean, face a slightly different journey.

**Warnings:** Show level violence.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Starring****:** Sam, Dean, Bobby, and a few other scattered characters.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

"Madame, all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you."  
― **Ernest Hemingway**

* * *

"Sam? Where are you?"

"Library."

Dean threw his keys and jacket onto the kitchen table and ducked around a pile of books. Bobby had gotten it into his head to organize, but it seemed like he was making an even bigger mess in the process. There was junk everywhere, cluttering up the floors. Sam was probably thrilled.

"Hey, man."

Sam grunted an affirmative. He was buried in a book that smelled like wet dog, and Dean spared a moment's pity for whatever animal had sacrificed its skin for the pages.

"Dude."

"Yeah."

"Hello? Anybody home?"

"Yeah, hi."

So much for that brotherly reunion. Dean sighed and went back to the kitchen. He'd driven straight from a haunting in Arkansas and he desperately needed a drink, food, and a nap. Preferably in that order.

He fished a beer and day-old brisket out of the fridge and made his way back to the library. Bobby hated it when they ate in the library, but Bobby wasn't there.

"Where'd Bobby go?"

"Hunt with Rufus."

Dean hummed and washed his brisket down with beer.

* * *

When he woke up, Sam was gone. The sun was gone too, and someone had covered him with a blanket. Sam, maybe, or Bobby had gotten back.

He groaned and stretched, working out the final kinks from his eleven-hour drive. His stomach grumbled.

Sam was in the kitchen, making ham and cheese sandwiches. Okay. Bobby wasn't back yet.

"Hey, dude, thanks for lovingly draping me with a blanket."

"Had to cover up your ugly face."

"My face is rugged. Handsome. All the girls say so."

Sam's only response was to roll his eyes.

"You doing okay?"

"Yes, Dean." Another roll of the eyes. He was already exasperated. Great. But Dean was Dean and Sam was Sam and they would play this charade out to the end.

"Doing your stretches?"

"… mostly."

"Sam, you know you gotta do them."

"Exactly, Dean. I know, so why are you telling me?"

They ate their sandwiches.

* * *

It was nearly midnight, but Dean was wide awake thanks to his pre-dinner nap. _Iron_ _Man _was on TV again. Seemed like _Iron Man_ was always on, Sunday nights. Sam was buried in a book. Probably the same one as before, given the smell. Dean wrinkled his nose.

"Sam?"

Sam sighed and closed the book.

"What, Dean." It wasn't really a question.

"You been having more dreams." That wasn't really a question, either.

"… yes."

"You been writing them down?"

"Yes, Dean. They're all typed up and I give them to Bobby. Why, was there a unanimous decision to pick on me this week?"

"What do you mean? I'm just trying to check on you. You're too good at lying over the phone so I gotta come see my kid brother in person sometimes."

Dean kept his tone light. Sam didn't.

"Oh, so you just came to check on me because you don't trust me."

"No! Sam… why you always gotta…"

The Jericho missile exploded on TV. It made both brothers flinch.

There was silence for a moment.

"Was Dad here, too? Why'd you say everyone's picking on you this week?"

"He came by on Wednesday. Asked the same questions you just did. You guys could communicate, once in a while."

"I guess."

Dad and Dean didn't talk much, these days.

"Well, if that's the end of the interrogation, I'm beat." And then, because they really had missed each other despite their best efforts, "Night, Dean."

"Night, Sam."

Sam wheeled out of the room.

* * *

**To be continued... **


	2. Chapter 2

**Slowly working through an outline. Don't want to post too much until I have completed a little more, but here's the next chapter for now. Enjoy, and let me know what you think! Still working on the plot, so I also welcome story suggestions! **

* * *

**Chapter 2**

"Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know."  
― **Ernest Hemingway, _The Garden of Eden_**

* * *

Thankfully, Sam didn't say anything the next morning when Dean said he would go to PT with him. Bobby had stumbled through the door in the dark hours of the morning and was snoring on the couch as they hurried through breakfast and scrambled to make Sam's appointment.

Well, Dean scrambled. Sam was showered and dressed and downing his pills with a shot of black coffee before Dean was even halfway out of bed.

The pain had probably woken him up long before Bobby even came in. Lines of agony were becoming a normal part of Sammy's face.

"Dude, stop staring. We're gonna be late."

Dean shook himself and barreled through the door, following Sam down the ramp.

It's hard to step over the salt lines when you're in a wheelchair. The summer before, Dean and Bobby had mixed concrete with copious amounts of rock salt and used it to redo the front steps. Dad had stayed long enough to build the wooden frame for the ramp, which they'd filled with an extra salty batch of concrete.

"Always been meaning to do this," Bobby had said, when it was finished. "Easier than redoing the salt lines every night."

No one had acknowledged the lie.

The sun was already hot, glinting blindingly off of old car parts. Dean held himself with tenuous restraint as Sam transferred himself from wheelchair to car, arms bearing his weight where his legs no longer could. He slowly took the wheelchair apart, carefully placing each piece in the space behind the driver's seat until the deconstructed wheelchair was safely inside. The wait was agonizing in more ways than one.

"You coming, or what?"

Dean got in.

The PT office wasn't far. Dean pretended he wasn't watching Sam use the hand controls.

So did Sam.

* * *

PT sucked.

By the time Sam had finished the prescribed torture, he was sweating and gasping. Dean went over to push the wheelchair.

"Leave it," Sam growled. It would have been more intimidating if he hadn't nearly fallen out of his chair trying to bat Dean away. Dean ignored him and pushed him down the hall to the locker room.

* * *

The car pulled to a jerky stop in the yard. The door slammed, and Bobby knew they'd been fighting.

"What are we gonna do with those two idjits, Rumsfeld," Bobby muttered, more rhetorically than anything. Sam wheeled himself up the ramp, the scowl on his face more dangerous than any sawed-off Bobby had ever owned. Dean followed, probably more closely than was safe.

"C'mon, Sam. You gotta let people help you." Sam wheeled through the kitchen faster than he should have and caught himself on a chair. Frustrated, he pushed past it only to find the hallway blocked by a pile of books.

He punched the wall.

"Whoa, Sam. Hold up."

"Like you haven't been living with a wheelchair user for two years now, Bobby! If you have to be drunk all the time, at least you could keep the floors clear!"

"Hold on, Sam, that's what I'm tryin' to do! It's just takin' a little bit to get through it all, and you know that. Take a breath, son." Sam visibly steadied himself, clenching his jaw.

"You can't just take control, Dean. I didn't want your help and you didn't respect that."

"Yeah, but dude, you gotta put your pride aside sometimes. We got outta there like five times faster than you've ever- "

"Shut up! I don't care. I didn't want to get out faster. I wanted you to leave me alone!"

Now Dean was clenching his jaw, knuckles white over the back of the only kitchen chair that remained from the original set Karen had picked out.

There was silence for a moment.

"Boys, I think there's some balance that you can find, and I'm trusting you to work it out just as you do everything else. Dean, you're not here often enough to see just how well Sam gets by on his own. If you can be a little more patient, he does just fine and usually he asks for help when he needs it. Sam, we've talked about this before. If you want us to trust you to ask for help, then you gotta actually ask for help when you need it."

Dean nodded, short and jerky, but Sam's still-present scowl made Bobby think that maybe there was something else going on under the surface. He sighed and adjusted his ballcap. It would come out sooner or later, and he had a headache from too little sleep the night before.

"I'll leave you to it," he said. "Gonna grab a quick nap before dinner." Rumsfeld followed him out of the kitchen.

* * *

**To be continued... **


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three, and longest chapter yet! Working on the next chapter of "Id quod" as well. The pace picks up a little bit here - enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

"No, that is the great fallacy: the wisdom of old men. They do not grow wise. They grow careful."  
― **Ernest Hemingway, **_**A Farewell to Arms**_

* * *

Sam and Dean knew Bobby would never let them get away with the silent treatment. And they were far too mature to subtly jab at each other all evening.

"Would you pass the string beans, Sam?"

"Of course, Dean."

"Thank you very much, Sam."

Bobby rolled his eyes at Rumsfeld and scooped up a bite of lasagna. He was going to need some calories in his system if he was going to deal with this new brand of idiocy.

"Would you like the salt and pepper, Sam?"

"Yes, please, Dean."

"Here you go, Sam."

"Thank you, Dean."

Bobby wondered if banging his head against the table until he passed out would cause permanent damage.

"Boys," he began, but he never found out what he'd been going to say. Without warning Sam was suddenly bent over double, pushing himself away from the table and gasping harshly.

"Sam. Sam!" This hadn't happened in a while. Bobby's chair screeched as he rose from the table. Sam was moaning over Dean's calm pleas and Bobby fumbled with the bottle cap. Why'd they make these things so impossible. Push down and twist. Come _on_. Push down and –

"Finally. Here, Sam. Come on. Swallow this. Nice and easy." Bobby clenched his teeth. Sam was struggling wildly in the chair, but he held himself still by sheer force of will while Bobby helped him swallow the pills.

"Let's get him lying down, Dean." Dean pulled Sam up so that he was sitting more securely in the wheelchair, then pushed him into the living room. Together they got him onto the couch. All disagreements were forgotten as Sam lay there, white knuckles gripping Dean's wrist. Both boys had their eyes closed, waiting.

Finally, by some unspoken agreement, they opened their eyes. Sam released his grip on Dean's arm. There was a moment of quiet relief. Sam was taking deep, shuddering breaths. "Spasms," Dean said, not really asking. Sam nodded.

There was a knock at the door which made them all jump.

Right. Monday. "It's okay, boys," Bobby said, heaving himself up from the couch. "It's just Old Edgar."

Old Edgar was the only hunter Bobby knew who'd lived to retirement. Scratch that – he was the only hunter he'd ever even heard of who'd lived past seventy. Those that did live long enough to retire were usually eaten or mangled or killed in some equally unpleasant way by the Things that came after them for revenge.

Old Edgar was Old Edgar because Young Edgar (who was over fifty) was tracking a werewolf in Indiana, Edgar the Third was finishing up with a poltergeist in Arizona, and Little Edgar was attending kindergarten in Philadelphia. Old, Young, the Third, and Little – all of the Edgars did good, solid work.

Old Edgar was, as might be expected, very old. He was also half deaf, with joints so stiff you could hear them creak, an incredible ability to hold his liquor, and several missing toes that spoke to the life he'd led. Once a week he made the hour-long drive over to Singer Salvage, ostensibly to share a beer and a game of no stakes barred Uno with Bobby. More often than not he brought his phone with him, grumbling about new-fangled technology, and Sam would spend twenty minutes trying to figure out what he'd managed to do to it since last Monday.

Bobby was planning to send him home. Sam would be exhausted by the time the pills kicked in, and Dean would be in no mood for company. But before he'd even fully opened the screen door, Old Edgar was shoving his way in. He was paler than usual, but there was a light in his eyes that Uno had never awoken, not even when Dean had played him for peanut butter M&M's (Old Edgar had wiped the floor with the poor fool).

"He's after me, Bobby."

"Who," said Bobby, shortly. He was in no mood for an old man's whims.

"The vampire."

Ah. Here, there would be trouble. Old Edgar was convinced that he'd come across a vampire back in the fifties. As he told it, he'd bashed the thing wildly over the head until it had fallen to the floor, unmoving. He'd gotten the civilians out, then gone back for it. But the vampire, or whatever it was, had been gone without a trace.

Most hunters scoffed at the story as talk, and nothing more. A ghost story among _real_ ghost stories. But Bobby wouldn't be surprised if vampires were real. Why not, really, when so many other things were? Still, he was in no hurry to humor the old man. Especially not tonight.

"Come on, Edgar," he said, placatingly. "Come in and have a seat."

"Don't give me that nonsense," Old Edgar thundered. I know what I saw. Hadn't aged a day. More teeth than is natural. It's a vampire, Bob!"

Old Edgar was also the only man on earth who called him Bob.

Dean's voice drifted down the hallway. "Everything okay, Bobby?"

"Yup," he called back. "Edgar, sit down. Sit down. You know this place is warded. I'm not saying you're wrong. Sit down and tell me what happened."

Old Edgar huffed and sank into a chair. Bobby sighed and pulled a few beers out of the fridge, throwing one at Dean as he wandered in. Dean caught it as well as Bobby's questioning glance and said, "Sam's sleeping."

Well then, you might as well lend your professional services. Edgar, the floor is yours."

What followed was a convoluted mix of an old man's ramblings along with brief moments that showed just how brilliant Old Edgar had been, and in many ways, still was. He'd even managed to get a picture on his phone.

"Huh," Bobby said. "Sam will be proud."

Old Edgar grinned.

* * *

**Thanks for reading. Drop a review! ****As always, I value your feedback and suggestions.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter four! Hope you enjoy. **

* * *

**Chapter 4**

"I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake, you know?"  
― **Ernest Hemingway**

* * *

There wasn't any soda, of course. Not this close to Utah. And Malad, Idaho, was quickly becoming one of Sam's least favorite examples of small-town America.

"Hurry up, Sam," Dean called, standing at the counter with a jumbo bag of Halloween candy. Sam frowned and grabbed a few Gatorades. Dean pulled out a wad of cash and the cashier (Rick, according to his nametag), waved them out half-heartedly, already turning back to his book. _From Ritual to…_ Rick turned, and Sam wasn't able to catch the rest of the title.

"Let's go, Sam." He hurried out after Dean.

As soon as Dean had started the car, his phone rang.

"Hey, Dad," he said. Whatever he heard made him straighten. "Yes, sir. Right away. Yessir." He hung up and put the car into gear, backing out onto the street. "Dad," he said, as if Sam didn't know.

"What's going on," Sam said. He felt suddenly exhausted. They had been planning to catch a movie that night.

"He's found… something. I guess. Wouldn't say what. Said to bring the salt and the gasoline."

The part of Sam that was a normal, sarcastic teenager said, "Well, that's detailed and informative. And it's as if we don't keep the duffels packed literally all the time."

"Sam." Dean sounded tired, too. They drove out of the town, following the route Dad had been taking out to Oxford Peak every day since they'd moved here.

"Here is no water but only rock," Sam recited. "Rock and no water and the sandy road, the road winding above among the mountains, which are mountains of rock without water."

Dean looked at Sam askance. "Who knows what creepy Thing Dad found out here, and now you gotta start quoting creepy poetry?"

"Sorry," Sam said. "T.S. Eliot. Third time this year. And twice last year." Studying the same material over and over again was an unfortunate side effect of moving so often.

"Well, stop it."

There was no one on the road and Dean drove like it. They followed the clear tracks of Dad's pickup as far up the side of the mountain as they could, Dean muttering under his breath with every bump. After the fifth, "Sorry, baby," Sam rolled his eyes and turned back to the window.

"There, Dean," he said.

"Finally," Dean grumbled. He pulled up beside Dad's pickup. The boys got out and grabbed both duffels.

"Think we should bring everything?" They would have to climb a pretty far distance. Dean thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I can't think of anything to leave that would be worth the extra speed," he said. "We'll end up needing whatever we've left behind, and we'll regret it."

Sam slung his own duffel over his shoulder and they trudged off. The climb wasn't terrible; Malad wasn't known for its great peaks. It was, however, known for its huge population of Welsh descendants, along with the badly kept town secret of hikers who'd disappeared into the caves and never returned. Finally, they reached the end of Dad's directions and found themselves at the mouth of a cave. They slung their bags down and armed themselves with their sawed offs. Sounded like Dad was thinking ghost, so rock salt rounds. Fresh batteries in the flashlights, and they'd done all they could. Then they hoisted the duffels back onto their shoulders. Dean raised an eyebrow, Sam nodded, and they entered the cave.

Clearing a room was much harder when it was pitch-dark and, as far as you knew, there could be five or six entrances. The cave complex, as Dad had described it, wasn't huge, but it was just big enough that you could definitely get lost for a few hours.

They were saved a long search and some unnecessary anxiety when Dad appeared out of a tunnel to the right.

"Boys," he said shortly. "Matches and gasoline?"

"Yessir," they said in unison. He gestured for them to follow.

"Real strange," he said quietly, as they crept through the short passageway. "Never seen anything like it, but I'm sure and certain it's our culprit. Don't touch anything."

With that cryptic comment, they entered a surprisingly large cavern. The ceiling was just low enough that Dad couldn't straighten. Sam realized with a start that he was no longer squinting. There was a bowl in the center of the cave. It looked simple enough, but it was clearly supernatural. Even if it hadn't been emitting a yellow glow, the dead bodies, seemingly flung back from the center, would have given it away. Some were barely skeletons, but Sam also recognized Martha Williams, aged 37, missing for two weeks.

"Ew," Dean said, succinctly. Then, "A cereal bowl?"

"Took me forever to find this," Dad said. "Don't touch it." An unnecessary repetition, but neither of them complained.

"What's the plan?"

"Well, never heard of anything like this. Can't find anything in the town's history. Nothing in the Native American legends. Honestly, boys, I don't know. But clearly this can't continue. I'm thinking we try salting and burning."

"Okay," Dean said. They dropped their duffels to the cave floor and pulled out the gasoline. Dad doused the bowl, then liberally sprinkled the salt. Sam was just thinking how easy this was turning out to be when the first dead body got up from behind Dean and put him into a chokehold.

"Sam!" Three of them were hanging off of Dad, pulling his arms back and forcing him to drop the matches. "Do it, Sam," Dad said, short of breath. Sam was already diving for the matchbox. He lit one, thankfully on the first try. A zombie hiker was trying to yank on his ankle, which, _ew_, but he managed to drop the match into the bowl.

Afterwards he only knew pain and darkness.

* * *

_Sam._

Someone was calling him. He hoped they would go away.

_Sam, Sam, _"Sammy!"

Sam opened his eyes and sat up on Bobby's living room couch.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear any feedback/story suggestions! Happy Sunday. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter five, y'all! Enjoy.**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason."  
**– Ernest Hemingway **

* * *

"Type it up," Dean said, handing over the laptop. Sam shook his head.

"Dude, type it up." Dean was waving the laptop around, and Dad had paid an arm and a leg for that laptop, but Sam was too tired to fight.

"Dean, it was just Oxford. Again. No change."

"Are you sure? Details are important," Dean said. Sam nodded, eyes slipping closed.

"Not yet, Sam. Wake up a second and drink some water." Dean pulled him up. Sam was shaking all over from pain and felt no shame as Dean propped him up and helped him drink.

"You're sure there was nothing different?"

"Yeah," Sam said, and struggled to focus on his brother's face.

"Okay, Sam," Dean said, his voice coming from very far away. "Go to sleep."

* * *

"As long as I don't have to wear a garlic necklace."

Sam blinked himself awake, pushing himself up before he'd had time to think about it. The pain wasn't too bad. He shivered despite the blanket they'd given him (an ugly green one that Bobby insisted on keeping; Sam suspected that Karen had made it). It was late, now. They'd turned off the lamps in the living room, but the light from the kitchen was a comfortable reminder that he wasn't alone.

"No, Dean," Bobby was saying, long-suffering. "Decapitation should work fine."

There was silence for a moment. Then, "We should move Old Edgar to the library." Where Sam usually slept.

Bobby and Dean sighed in unison. Their chairs scraped against the floor as they stood. Sam grinned at Old Edgar's colorful reaction to being woken up.

A spasm worked its way through his legs. He clenched his teeth and fought to get his breathing under control. The pain came and went, but even now he wasn't used to it. By the time he came back to himself, Dean was kneeling beside him, hands steady as ever, leaning him back to relieve the ache in his hips.

"Thanks," he said, a minute later.

"Yup. Finally got Old Edgar back to sleep. Feel like I'm babysitting four-year-old _you_ again."

"What's up with him?"

"Funny story. Pretty sure he's found a real-life vampire. And thanks to you he knew how to take a photo with his phone. Hold on, I'll get it."

An actual vampire. Dean was probably over the moon. If he was honest with himself, Sam was too.

"Here, see?" And there it was, extra set of teeth and all. "Bobby's making some calls, but so far the most reliable lore we've found says decapitation. Gonna go after it tomorrow."

Sam felt a brief flash of longing that had nothing to do with the ache in his bones. He ignored it in favor of asking, "Decapitation?"

"Yup. I get to break out my machete," Dean said in his best Mexican accent. Which was pretty terrible. Sam snorted.

Bobby stepped into the doorway. "You boys okay?"

"Yeah, Bobby, we're good."

"Right. Don't stay up too late, you idjits." He turned and they heard him stumping up the stairs.

"Love you too, Bobby," Dean called. Then, to Sam, "Come on."

Sam could have insisted on doing everything himself, but it was late, he was in pain, and he had no energy to fight, much less actually get himself to the bathroom and back. Their argument that afternoon hadn't been their first; Sam was determined to set boundaries and maintain what independence he could. Still, when it came down to it Sam knew that Dean meant well. And sometimes, like tonight, he was just plain tired and wanted the help.

"Night, Dean."

Dean looked up from the nest he'd made for himself out of lore books and couch cushions.

"Night, Sam."

* * *

_The land is dying. _

_Sam knows this like he knows his own name. A quiet wind carries the dust across the path in front of him. _

_The land is dying. _

_Here is no water but only rock. Rock and no water and the sandy road, the road winding above among the mountains, which are mountains of rock without water. _

_The land is dying. _

_In front of him, a plant shrivels into nothing, even as he watches_._ He looks down, down, down, beneath his feet. He is standing on bones. _

_The land is dying. _

_Sam is dying, too. _

"Come on, Sam."

There's no soda. Not this close to Utah. He'll grab a few Gatorades instead.

Rick, always reading his book. _From Ritual To –_ but Sam can never see the rest. Dad, on the phone. "Bring the salt and gasoline."

The drive up to Oxford Peak. "Here is no water but only rock. Rock and no water and the sandy road, the road winding above among the mountains, which are mountains of rock without water." Dean, complaining.

Grab the sawed-offs and flashlights. Careful entering the cave, or Dad'll make them run drills all night. A rooster is crowing somewhere outside.

Dad, leading them through the tunnel. "Don't touch anything." Martha Williams, aged 37, missing for two weeks.

"We'll try salting and burning," Dad tells them. The skeletons are holding Dean back. They're grabbing at Dad.

"Do it, Sam!"

Pain.

_The land is dying_.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Drop a review to let me know what you thought. Happy Monday!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Here's the next chapter! If you're not a fan of poetry... bear with me. This site doesn't give you many formatting options, but I did my best to make the poetry easy on the eyes as you read. **

**Also wanted to thank the guest who reviewed! It's ridiculously encouraging to hear from y'all!**

**For anyone wondering, this story is based in an actual myth. I have been doing a ridiculous amount of research to make it as accurate as possible, but I have also taken some creative license so that it fits within the _Supernatural_ world. There have been a few clues so far as to what that myth is... another one is coming! **

* * *

**Chapter 6**

"I know the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started."  
― **Ernest Hemingway, ****A Farewell to Arms**

* * *

Bobby was staring at him when he woke up, laptop in hand. Sam sighed.

"It was the same thing," he said.

"Really," Bobby said. Sam pressed his eyes closed, as if it would help him remember.

"There… there was a rooster. Crowing. When we entered the cave."

"Okay, good," Bobby said, opening the laptop and booting it up. "Anything else?"

Sam's headache spiked. "No, Bobby! No. There was nothing else. There's _never_ anything else."

Bobby ignored the sudden frustration. Instead he said, "Head?"

Sam deflated. "Yes."

He waited, eyes closed, while Bobby grabbed some Tylenol, then slowly pushed himself up so he could swallow the pills. "Thought you were heading out on that vampire hunt?"

"It's still early. Dean's packing the car up."

"Okay. I can only remember the rooster. Sorry."

"It's okay, Sam. You never know what might be important." There was the sound of Bobby hunting and pecking, no pun intended, and then he closed the laptop and stood. Sam looked up at him. He had a sudden desire to be standing, looking Bobby in the eye.

"Watch out for each other?"

"Of course, Son."

"Okay. I'll hold the fort." Whatever that meant.

"You and Old Edgar take care of each other. Don't leave the property."

Dean came in a few minutes later to say goodbye and leave a few unnecessary reminders to eat and rest and stay inside of the warding. Sam nodded and smiled and teased in all of the right places. Then Dean ruffled Sam's hair and Sam smacked him. The kitchen door slammed, there was the sound of the car starting up, and they were gone.

Suddenly, Sam was finding it hard to breathe. There was nothing he could do, now. He hadn't even helped with the research. They were going in unprepared, holding on to luck and a few scraps of lore as their only protection.

_The land is dying_.

An odd phrase. Sam wasn't sure where he'd heard it before.

Perhaps he'd read it somewhere.

"Samuel? Where can an old man get a piece of toast?"

He shook himself and pushed the blanket aside so he could shift into his wheelchair.

* * *

"Stop it."

"What?"

"Staring at the clock. They'll be here when they're here."

"It was in your backyard?"

"Samuel. Come on, your king is in check."

"Yeah, okay." He moved a pawn. Old Edgar sighed. He stared at the board and Sam stared at the clock.

_The land is dying. _

"Your move, Son."

If Sam's legs still worked, he would have been tapping his feet against the floor. Hah. And there was one nervous tell he was completely invulnerable to. He almost laughed at the thought.

"Checkmate."

"So it is."

Sam couldn't help himself. He wheeled over to the window.

"Son, you're making _me_ nervous. Read a book, or something."

Sam shook himself. What was he doing, pining like a damsel in distress? He'd never hear the end of this when they got back. He spun his chair back towards the nearest shelf and scanned the books, searching for something that would catch his interest enough to take his mind off of things.

A thin, black book caught his eye. T. S. Eliot, _Selected Poems_.

"Here is no water but only rock. Rock and no water and the sandy road, the road winding above among the mountains, which are mountains of rock without water," Sam murmured.

"What's that?"

"Oh, nothing. Think I'm going to read."

Old Edgar mumbled something uncomplimentary. Sam ignored him. There was something nagging at him, something to do with that poem. Something important.

Despite studying it five separate times in high school, he'd never fully understood it. It was a long poem, and parts of it were genuinely a little bit creepy.

_A heap of broken images, where the sun beats / __And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief / __And the dry stone no sound of water. Only / __There is shadow under this red rock / __(Come in under the shadow of this red rock) / __And I will show you something different from either / __Your shadow at morning striding behind you / __Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; / __I will show you fear in a handful of dust. _

He'd forgotten how many phrases Eliot had included in different languages. He skimmed over the German and French to the second section, ironically titled, _A Game of Chess. _

_When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said— / __I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself, / __HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME / __Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart. / __He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you / __To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. / __You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, / __He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you._

He shivered. What a strange poem. He flipped to the next section. Nothing. And the fourth section was barely half a page. He turned another page. Ah, but here was the line that had been running through his head.

_Here is no water but only rock / __Rock and no water and the sandy road / __The road winding above among the mountains / __Which are mountains of rock without water / __If there were water we should stop and drink / __Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think / __Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand / __If there were only water amongst the rock / __Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit / __Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit_

There was more of the same. Rocks and no water and dead things. Then,

_Who is the third who walks always beside you? / __When I count, there are only you and I together / __But when I look ahead up the white road / __There is always another one walking beside you / __Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded / __I do not know whether a man or a woman / __—But who is that on the other side of you?_

Suddenly his heart was racing. Something about this was important. He knew it like he knew his own name.

_In this decayed hole among the mountains / __In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing / __Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel-_

"Samuel!"

Sam came back to himself with a start. "What's wrong?" He put the book down and wheeled out of the living room. Old Edgar didn't respond, which was concerning, but the shout had come from the kitchen. It was never easy to get the wheelchair up onto the thick carpet in the hallway, but he did it as quickly and quietly as he could. He took another moment to reach into the pocket sewn under the seat of the wheelchair and pull out his knife. Then he wheeled into the kitchen.

There, holding a knife of his own to Old Edgar's throat, was the vampire.

* * *

**If you're not a fan of poetry, I'm sorry. If you're not a fan of cliffhangers... I'm not actually that sorry :D **

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think of this one! **


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you so much to the guest reviewers! Your comments made my day! **

**And here's the next chapter. Shorter than usual, but I hope you enjoy! **

* * *

**Chapter 7**

"All things truly wicked start from innocence."  
― **Ernest Hemingway**

* * *

"Drop the knife," the vampire said.

Sam did.

"Hands behind your head," it said.

It was trembling, Sam saw. He threaded his hands behind his head. Then, as calmly, as he could, he said, "I'll do whatever you want, but can you let him go? He's in his _nineties_. He can't hurt you."

"He already has," the vampire snarled. "He killed the love of my life._" _

Old Edgar, steadier than the vampire despite the knife to his throat, blinked slowly in comprehension. "The girl. The one that didn't make it."

"Her name," the vampire hissed, "was Marie," and its fangs dropped. That couldn't be good.

"But she wasn't a vampire," Old Edgar said. "She died from blood loss."

"Well, they turned me, and they fed off of her. They told me I was _lucky_," it spat. "And you, hunter, you let them get away. You let her die."

Old Edgar paled. And that talk he'd given Sam last summer about winning some, losing some, and not feeling guilty about civilian deaths?

Rubbish.

"I didn't know," he said, very quietly. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry," the vampire said, slowly. "Well, I've spent my undead years putting an end to the pack that killed my wife. And I've never lost your scent. Not even after fifty years. So nothing you say to me now will stop me from doing the same to you."

"Please," Sam began. Then he caught sight of the pistol in the vampire's other hand. It followed Sam's eyes, seemed to remember the gun in its hand, and brought the barrel up so that it was level with Sam's face.

Oops.

"Wanna say something smart?" Sam shook his head, and the thing laughed. "What did you think you were gonna do anyway, you and that knife? A cripple and an old man. This couldn't have been any easier."

Sam felt his face turn red, half angry and half ashamed. It was true. He was useless, and Old Edgar was going to die because he was stuck in this stupid chair. Old Edgar, who was fixated on the gun. Oh, no.

"Now," Old Edgar said. "The boy has nothing to do with this. And he's clearly not a threat. Let's just go outside and handle it between us."

The vampire didn't even consider the idea. "No," it said, grinning like the mad thing that it was and clicking the safety off. "No, because I suffered through the loss of someone important to me. And so will you, old man."

It pulled the trigger.

* * *

"You don't think it went back to your place, do you?"

"Dean, you know it's warded to high heaven. Salt and iron and everything in between."

"Yeah, but what do we even know about vampires? Does salt even repel them? Maybe it's got Edgar's scent, or something."

There was a moment of silence.

Bobby pressed down on the gas.

* * *

**To be continued... **


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you to Jen and Iowa Kat for reviewing! You have all been so encouraging, and I can't thank you enough! ****Over the weekend I took a break from _Broken Places_ and posted a one-shot called _Those Who Mourn_. I'd never written anything like it before and I was pretty nervous, so thank you to everyone who reviewed and favorited! ****To get back to our regularly scheduled programming - here's Chapter 8. **

**Note: No offense is meant to anyone whose personal beliefs preclude drinking soda or caffeine. **

* * *

**Chapter 8**

"I may not be as strong as I think, but I know many tricks and I have resolution."  
― **Ernest Hemingway**

* * *

_There's no soda. How Mormons survive without caffeine, he'll never understand. At least they believe in electrolytes. _

_Rick, absent mindedly ringing them up while he reads his book. From Ritual To – from ritual to what? Dean, impatient. Leaving the store and Dad, focused and determined as always, "Bring the salt and gasoline." _

_The jerky ride up the mountain. There is Something in the car with them, Something that makes Sam say, "Here is no water but only rock. Rock and no water and the sandy road, the road winding above among the mountains, which are mountains of rock without water."_

_Dean scowling, muttering, "Sorry, Baby," everytime the car jolts. Something makes Sam turn his head to the side. But no, there's only Dad's pickup, parked with plenty of space for them to pull up beside it. _

_Not too far away, a rooster crows, and Sam looks up. The sky is cloudy, and he can almost taste the rain that is coming. _

_Duffel bags, sawed-offs, and flashlights. Senses alert, eyes darting back and forth as they enter the cave. Something moves in the corner of Sam's vision, but it turns into Dad, and thank goodness he's okay. A low tunnel. All of them have to crouch. "Don't touch anything," Dad tells them. _

_A glowing, supernatural… cereal bowl. Martha Williams, aged 37, missing for two weeks. And the Something… standing just behind Dean. _

_"Salting and burning," Dad says. Suddenly, the bodies rise up from the floor. There's a decaying hand wrapped around his ankle. _

_"Do it, Sam," Dad shouts. _

_He drops the match. _

_The Something rushes forward. _

_Pain._

"Sam!" For a moment, Sam thought he was still in the cave. The pain certainly felt the same. But then there was a voice shouting, "Samuel Winchester, look at me," and he opened his eyes to see–

"Bobby," he gasped. "Bobby, the vampire– "

"We got it, Son," Bobby said. "Hold on, now. This is gonna hurt."

It did, and for a few moments all Sam could focus on was the agony in his thigh and Dean's voice in his ear. "It's okay, Sam. I got you, little brother. I got you, I got you, I got you. We ganked that vamp good, you shoulda seen it. Bobby with the machete, I'll never forget it. You were pretty awesome, Bobby. Hey, hey, it's okay. Old Edgar's just fine. He tackled the vamp and you woulda thought he was twenty, not ninety something. Thank goodness, too, because the bullet ended up just barely grazing your thigh instead of hitting your chest. Bleeding a little, but Bobby'll fix you up. Hey, hey, it's okay, you squeeze as tight as you want, Sammy."

"This can't just be the bullet wound, Dean. It really was just a graze. Bleeding's already stopped."

"Then what– "

"Grab his meds?" Dean's hand wormed its way out of his grip, and Sam must have made some sort of noise because Dean shushed him before disappearing. Sam could hear the rattle of the pill bottle and then Dean cursed.

"It's ridiculously hard to open," Bobby said. "Push down and, yeah, there you go." Dean was suddenly back, kneeling on the floor by Sam's head, propping him up so he could swallow the pills. Sam blinked and turned his head to the side as the meds slid down uncomfortably. There was his wheelchair on its side, and there was Old Edgar, sitting incongruously calmly on top of the headless vampire.

Sam screwed up his face in disgust and turned back to Dean. He was shivering, he realized with some detachment. Probably a combination of shock and pain.

"It's getting worse, isn't it? You said about once a month, and this is the second time this week!"

"What could you have done about it? Sam asked me not to tell you. We were both afraid you'd do something reckless and we're already doing all we can to fix this!"

"Dean," Sam gasped, shakily. "I figured it out."

"That's good, Sammy, just hold on and let the meds work their magic."

"No, Dean," he insisted. "I figured it out. I know what it was."

Now he had their full attention, but the pain was overwhelming. He shuddered and gripped Dean's hand.

"What was it, Sam?"

_The land is dying_.

"I think," Sam breathed, "I think it was the Holy Grail."

* * *

**To be continued... **


	9. Chapter 9

**Hi, folks!** **So, I took another short break from this story to post a one-shot called _Brother and Brother. _It was a little bit experimental, but thanks to everyone who favorited, and thanks to Kathy for the review!**

**Back to _Broken Places_, I'm not sure if I mentioned this before, but this is entirely unbeta-ed. Please do not hesitate to PM me if you see plot inconsistencies, spelling mistakes, or grammar errors, or if you have any suggestions for how to make the story better! I appreciate feedback and my hope is that the story can shine through unimpeded by technical errors. **

**Thank you MicheleChadwick and Guest for the reviews! MicheleChadwick asked how old Sam and Dean are in this story; I imagine this story taking place in the summer, when Sam is around 18, Dean is around 22, and during flashbacks to the cave, Sam is 15. The story is somewhat AU, but once it is complete, you could pick it up with Season 1 and Sam at Stanford (...assuming he survives).**

**I'm excited for the next few chapters! The pace picks up again here. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter** **9**

"When people talk, listen completely. Most people never listen."  
**– Ernest Hemingway**

* * *

"The Holy Grail is an important motif in Arthurian literature. Different traditions describe it as a cup, dish or stone with otherworldly powers that can provide happiness, eternal youth or sustenance. It was often in the custody of the Fisher King. Blah, blah, blah, symbolism… The Grail first appears in _Perceval, le Conte_… whatever, some French book, written in the late 1100s. At the end of the 12th century Robert de Boron wrote that Joseph of Arimathea used the Grail to collect Christ's blood before taking the cross down."

Sam clenched his jaw against a spasm of pain. "Okay," Dean said. "I'm on the edge of my seat. Keep going, Bobby."

Bobby scratched at the stubble on his chin. "Doesn't seem to be a whole lot of useful information so far, but then again I don't have a lot of books on King Arthur. We may need to visit the library."

"Well, keep reading this for now," Dean said. Sam gripped his brother's hand to keep from crying out and had a sudden suspicion that Dean couldn't care less about Bobby's old book, except for its power to distract Sam from the pain.

"While dining in the magical castle of the Fisher King, young Perceval – whoever he is – witnesses a magnificent procession in which young servants carry wondrous objects in front of the King, passing before him after each course of the meal. First comes a young man carrying a bleeding lance, then two boys carrying candle… candlebras. No, that's not right. Stop laughing," this was to Dean. "Two boys carrying candelabras, whatever _they _are. Finally, a beautiful girl comes, bearing an elaborately decorated Grail. The Grail held a single wafer which provided sustenance for the Fisher King's– Dean!" But this time no one was laughing. Sam gasped and writhed uncontrollably, clutching at Dean's hand.

"Come on, Bobby," Dean said, calmly. "Keep reading. You just squeeze my hand, Sammy. And listen to Bobby, because we need your big brain working double-time." The spasms were definitely getting worse. He'd been suffering maybe an episode a month, but this was the third time since Dean had gotten there.

Bobby sighed and adjusted his hat. "A single wafer which provided for the Fisher King's crippled father."

There was silence except for Sam's gasping breaths. Bobby and Dean pointedly kept their eyes on Sam's face and not on the useless limbs beneath the blanket.

Bobby flipped the page. "In 1202, de Boron tells the story of Joseph of Arimathea. He used the Grail to collect Christ's blood at the crucifixation, but was then thrown in prison, where he had a vision and learned the mysteries of the blessed cup. Upon his release, Joseph gathered his followers and travels to the west, where he founded a line of Grail 'keepers.' Through the years, the Grail became a symbol of divine grace; Galahad, the world's greatest knight and the Grail Bearer at the castle of Corbenic, was destined to achieve the Grail, his spiritual purity making him an even greater warrior than Lancelot."

"Galahad," Sam breathed. "You remember, Dean… the books."

"What books, Sammy?"

"The comics. Used to read to me."

"Yeah, Sammy."

"Galahad… he succeeded. But Lancelot couldn't, because he was unfaithful."

"Wow, dude, how do you remember this? You were like, four, when I read you these."

_Martha Williams, aged 37, missing for two weeks. _

"You remember the missing hikers?"

"Kind of?"

"Martha Williams? The schoolteacher?"

"Sammy, you're a genius."

Bobby leaned forward, asked, "What is it?" But Sam had no more energy for words.

"She was cheating," Dean explained. "On her boyfriend. Ryan, or something."

"Rick," Sam wheezed.

"Right. The cashier at the mini mart. Can't say I blame her, really."

"Not helpful, Dean. What about the others? All unfaithful?"

"I'm gonna take a wild guess and say yes, but Dad can confirm. He has all the files."

"Well, I think your daddy's in New Mexico, but we can try him." Bobby got up. They could hear him dialing, then leaving John a message asking him to call back as soon as possible. Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

"Well," Bobby said, falling tiredly into the armchair. "Let's get back to it. Blah, blah, blah… Lancelot is unfaithful, Galahad is his illegitimate son. Merlin prophesies that Galahad will surpass Lancelot in bravery and succeed in the search for the Holy Grail. Pelles, Galahad's grandfather, is a descendant of Joseph of Arimathea's brother-in-law, Bron, whose line was entrusted with the Grail by Joseph– " The phone rang.

Bobby stared at the boys in shock for a moment before rising to answer it.

"Who is this? John? Christo." Dean snorted. "Well, yes. You still have the files on the missing hikers? Quit your whining, we think we've found something. Any of them cheating on their significant others? No, I'll wait."

"Help me sit up," Sam said. "Back's hurting now. Yeah, thanks. Can you…"

"What," Dean says.

"Roll up that blanket and I'll put it behind me? Therapist said it would help with lower back support."

"Well, why haven't we been doing it this whole time?"

"Interesting. Nine divorcees? This town just have bad luck? Malad, Idaho," Bobby spelled out, phone tucked under his ear and pencil in hand, just as naturally as a sawed-off or a wrench. "What's the population count? Two, zero, nine, five. Anything else Malad is known for?"

"No soda," Sam whispered, and for some reason found it inordinately funny. Suddenly he was laughing, almost hysterically.

"Sam? Calm down, dude." But the pain spiked, and Sam couldn't stop laughing. Distantly, he heard Dean shouting, Bobby saying something in reply. Hands supported his head as he tumbled into darkness.

_"Thou hast failed, Anfortas." _

_"And what aspersions dost thou cast now, Balin?" _

_"Dissemble not, Sire. It becometh thee not." _

_Suddenly, Anfortas felt a rage like no other. "Miscreant. Thou art a common villein. Crawl back to thine cesspits." _

_"Thou hast failed, and must pay amercement," Balin shouted, raising the lance. _

"Sam? Sammy!"

"Hold on, John. Dean!"

"Sammy, breathe!"

_"Sire?"_

_Anfortas roused himself. _

_"Sire."_

_"The affliction remains, Sir Ywain." Forsooth, he deserved no relief, for he was a cur, a churl, and indeed, unworthy to be one of Bron's heirs. _

_"Sire, the wasteland. The famine remains, even as thine affliction remains." _

_"Mine agnate shall come, Ywain." _

"Sammy, come back, little brother. Come on, come on." Sam gasped and blinked away the image of Sir Ywain to see his brother kneeling beside the couch.

"Did you kiss me," Sam choked out, laughing and gasping for air all at once. "Swear… your undying love?"

"Breathe, Sammy, breathe."

"He's okay, John, just an episode. Worse than usual, but he's okay," Bobby was saying. "All right. I will. You just get yourself here. Bye." Bobby's abruptness was comforting in its familiarity.

"Here, Sam. Drink," and Dean pulled Sam up into a sitting position. There was a pill in his palm.

"Can't be time," Sam said, hoarsely. "Not yet."

"Just take it, Sammy," Dean said. "Can't have another for a while after this, though."

"You idjits done arguing? I got some info from your daddy."

Sam swallowed the pill and pushed himself up on aching arms.

"Yeah," he said. "Lay on, Macduff."

* * *

**I spent some time researching vocabulary commonly used in the Middle Ages. Some meanings may be obvious from context, but if not: **

**Aspersions**: accusations of guilt  
**Dissemble**: to hide  
**Becometh**: to suit, befit  
**Miscreant**: an evil person, villain, criminal  
**Villein**: a slave to a feudal lord  
**Cesspit**: a pit for the disposal of refuse  
**Amercement**: a fee that must be paid as commanded by a court of law in punishment for a crime  
**Forsooth**: indeed  
**Cur**: a surly or cowardly fellow  
**Churl**: a rude, ill-bred person  
**Agnate**: a relative whose kinship is traceable exclusively through males

**Drop a review and let me know what you think!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Here's Chapter 10! Bear with the exposition, and once again, forgive any mistakes. **

**(except for glaring plot holes. you can let me know about those.)**

**The next chapter is one of my favorites, so stay tuned!**

* * *

**Chapter 10**

"Courage is grace under pressure."  
**–Ernest Hemingway**

* * *

"Malad, Idaho," Bobby said. "Mormon."

"No soda," Sam said. Dean gave him an odd look, and it took a moment for Sam to remember that the last time he'd said that, he'd collapsed immediately afterward.

"No caffeine," Bobby agreed. "And given the Arthurian connections, it's probably important that the town claims to have the highest concentration of Welsh descendants than anywhere else outside of Wales."

"I thought King Arthur was a British story?" Dean said.

"Well, the most famous version is. But there are Welsh poems that are dated even earlier, where Arthur shows up as a warrior defending Britain from human and supernatural enemies. And the name 'Arthur' has its roots in Welsh. Means, 'bear man.'"

"Sounds like a hunter," Dean said, grinning.

Bobby couldn't hide his own smile. "Maybe. But after Arthur's initial 'sword in the stone' moment and the defeat of the invading Anglo-Saxons, the story shifts its focus to the Knights of the Round Table and the quest for the Holy Grail." He flipped through the book, frowning, then said, "Your daddy hadn't made any connections between the Welsh population and the Arthurian legend, but your theory could very well be what we've been looking for, Sam."

Sam shifted, uncertain if he should mention his dream. But why not, he thought. If he'd been supernaturally crippled there was no reason why he couldn't have a supernatural dream.

"I really think it is, Bobby. I had a weird dream when I passed out," and here it was easier not to make eye contact with either of them. "There was this guy… Anfortas? And a knight stabbed him through the thigh with a spear. The knight's name was Balin, and then there was another knight but I don't really remember that part. Anfortas, though… he was, I don't really know, but… he was waiting, I guess?"

There was a pause. "Waiting for what," Bobby finally said.

"I don't know. He was in pain, I think, but it might have been my own pain. But he said something about his… _agnate_, whatever that is, and that it was coming."

"Anfortas," Bobby murmured, flipping pages. "Anfortas, Anfortas, Anfortas."

"Hold on a second," Dean said. "Is Sammy having actual visions now? Should we be concerned?"

"Probably part of the curse," Bobby said off-handedly, then froze. "I mean, I don't know, Sam. But it's more likely now that it _is_ a curse, and not just medical."

A tiny spark of hope was suddenly burning in Sam's chest. He immediately and violently squashed it, and once again refused to look at either of them. Dean huffed and made an obvious effort to change the subject. "Find anything about this Anfortas dude?"

"Hmmm," Bobby said, absent-mindedly. Suddenly it made sense, why Dean got so annoyed when Sam was reading. The pain was finally wearing off, leaving him shaky and tired.

"Well?"

"Hold on, Son."

Dean started tapping and shifting in his chair, making Sam grin. Couldn't bear to sit still for even a minute, his brother. They amused themselves by making faces at each other and deluded themselves into thinking that Bobby didn't notice.

"In 1210, a new version of the myth was written," Bobby read, several minutes later. They sobered immediately and got a heavy sigh from Bobby in return for their troubles. "In this version, the Fisher King is mentioned by name and is called Anfortas. The nature of his wound is described in detail. The wound is a punishment for wooing," and here Dean snorted. "Wooing," Bobby continued, undeterred, "a woman who was not meant for him, making him no longer worthy to be a Grail Keeper. The wound causes the Fisher King immense pain until Galahad comes to cure him. Many of the Fisher Kings, descended from the original Grail Keeper, Bron, were wounded as they failed to protect the Holy Grail. There are several versions of the story of Anfortas, but in each, the king is wounded in the legs, unable to stand, and spends time fishing on the river near his castle, waiting for someone to come heal him."

"A new Grail Keeper," Sam murmured.

"Maybe," Bobby said, nodding. "Wasn't that the point of Galahad? He was faithful, so maybe he cured the Fisher King when he succeeded in his quest." He kept reading, then suddenly paled.

"What," Sam said.

"Nothing good," Bobby replied. "But I guess we all need to hear this. You said Balin stabbed Anfortas with a spear?" Sam nodded. Bobby pressed his lips together and sighed before reading the next section. "The lance is said to have barbaric properties and destructive powers. It has a dark and evil persona. Balin plunges it over and over into the Fisher King's wound to continue his pain." Sam grimaced and gripped Dean's hand without meaning to.

"Okay, Bobby," Dean said, "Still waiting to hear the good news, here."

"Unfortunately you'll be waiting awhile. The lore isn't very clear."

"What does that mean? So far it's been _very_ clear, Bobby. And _clearly_, Sam is in a lot of pain and is going to be until we fix this!"

"I've been parsing through about five different versions of the story, Dean. There's Welsh poems, French poems, a Latin version... and they're all slightly different."

"So?"

"So, I need to do some research. What was making those hikers go up there? And Sam wasn't 'wooing' nobody," Dean snorted and Sam replied with a vicious pinch of Dean's conveniently available but slightly sweaty palm, "so why was he targeted?"

Bobby was going to do some research, and maybe, even two years later, they would find some real answers. That little bit of hope was back. Sam smothered it, choked it, beat it to death, locked it up, and threw away the key.

* * *

**Final Update: April 12, 2020**

**Hi all, **

**Thank you for following this story up to this point! I have been doing a ridiculous amount of research, and I've come across several exciting things that I would like to work into the story. As you probably know, I began the story with a few ideas and some research but I had not completed an outline. This was unusually impulsive for me, and turned out to be a Bad Idea. I take my role as a writer very seriously. Telling stories is one of the oldest human traditions, and this may be fanfiction, but I still want to do it right. Given all of this, I have decided to rewrite Broken Places. **

**I truly, truly appreciate everyone's comments and encouragements! You've inspired me to do better. I want to leave this up, both so that you can see my first attempt (if you so desire), and so that I can keep your comments and reviews. **

**I am trying to learn from this experience, and I hope to finish with something even better for you all. Thank you for the support, reviews, and excellent questions (MicheleChadwick, thank you!). **

**The new story will be posted as "In Stony Places" (see what I did there?). It is fully outlined, and about halfway written. I'd love to hear what you think, especially after reading my first attempt! **

**Please reach out if you are alone during this time - I would love to message back and forth with you! I hope you are all safe and well, and Happy Easter! **

**All my love, **

**shewriteswords**


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